


Dances With Dragons

by Kiltavish



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, M/M, Post-Recall, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 19:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiltavish/pseuds/Kiltavish
Summary: In the midst of a re-surging war, Jesse McCree finds himself once again fighting for Overwatch. Along the way, he seeks redemption alongside an unlikely ally.





	1. Prologue

The quiet streets of Dorado had begun to feel like a second home, Jesse thought, staring at the intricately weaved brick at his feet. He traced the crooked pattern down the length of the alleyway, where he and his commanding officer were tucked away from the harsh gaze of the midday sun. Reyes, as always, was quiet and intense, eyes closed in concentration as he listened for footsteps. It threw the gunslinger off kilter more than he’d care to admit. Jesse was the talkative type, always had been, and the deafening silence between the two made his mind race with “what if’s” - what if they get the jump on us? What if I’m not quick enough? What if this whole thing goes to hell in a hand-basket? He sighed, leaning up against the adobe brick building and urging the thought away like a pestering fly. This was no time to start letting his nerves get the better of him. Not after last time. 

The atmosphere among Overwatch agents had been tumultuous at best - their ranks were spread razor thin to combat the looming threat of reactivated Omniums around the globe, not to mention those too busy playing civil servant for the scores of people placing the blame wholly on their organization. Morrison and Reyes had been at one another’s throats since Blackwatch had been exposed to the public. The Venice Incident had left quite the impression of Blackwatch on the fearful people of the world - a perfect bogeyman story for those who questioned Overwatch's existence in a time of relative peace. And though McCree and his fellow delinquents had limited contact with the other agents, that was a step too far in the eyes of the public. 

He’d all but jumped at the chance to get out of his stuffy barracks for once. The handful of ventures to the bustling city had left the gunslinger aching to return long after they’d departed, the aromatic street food and vibrant colors stirring some long abandoned feeling in his chest. Mercy and Tracer were among the agents tasked with evacuating the city, followed quietly behind by Reyes’ team. Their unit of four watched the citizens evacuate from afar, careful to keep the name ‘Blackwatch’ out of any headlines.  


After the noise died down and the city was left a bare shell, they broke off to survey the area. Dorado was unlucky enough to be within the radius of the many Omniums churning out drones - the Crisis had hit them especially hard. Rolling blackouts had become common with the fractured infrastructure here, but the citizens were doing all they could to hold out. It was a commendable effort, even in the face of roaming omnics killing indiscriminately.  


Jesse flicked a lighter in his pocket, fidgeting it to calm his mounting anxiety. It was coming up on hour four of their stakeout, and they hadn’t seen so much as a nut or bolt in that time. This was quickly becoming the most boring mission of his career. Not even Genji was here to be his usual sullen self.  


“McCree.” Reyes muttered, eyeing the lighter.  


The gunslinger ceased making noise, and a complaint died on his lips as the sound of metallic footfalls echoed down the alleyway from afar. Reyes edged out to peer beyond the building, quickly darting back as he spotted something. “Two drones inbound to our location. Bravo team, do you read me?”  


He didn’t hear the reply from their fellow Blackwatch agents, a dull ringing filling his eardrums as the communicator at his wrist hummed with low noise. The rhythmic steps sent a surge of adrenaline through his body. Another, heavier set of footsteps had joined the pair trotting towards them. McCree leaned around Reyes, watching with narrowed eyes as a bulky figure marched behind the two omnics, a large ‘B-73’ stamped on its chestpiece.  


“Bastion unit incomin'.” He muttered into the comm, holding Peacekeeper aloft as he stepped out of cover to meet the omnics head-on.  


McCree was ready to dispatch the thick-framed omnic with a well-placed shot from his revolver as it lumbered down the cobblestone street. When it raised its arm to fire on him, however, the B-73 unit stopped abruptly, its torso beginning to rotate. From the back of the omnic, a massive gatling gun swung around to aim at him. Shit.  


The thing’s barrels began spinning and he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder, shoving him roughly behind one of the adobe buildings. And then, gunfire. Unrelenting, almost deafening. The sound of bullets whizzing past the rough, tan exterior of the structure made McCree’s breath catch in his throat. Peacekeeper was a comfortable, familiar weight in his left hand as he collected himself. It never got any easier, now did it? The sound of bullet casings hitting the ground echoed throughout the empty streets. He reached down to thumb at a bullet hole that had clipped clean through the edge of his red serape, pursing his lips.  


“The hell is the matter with you, kid!?” He heard Reyes shout as the ringing dulled, and he realized the Blackwatch agent had taken cover behind a concrete barricade a few feet away. He’d been saved by the commander - again.  


The two sentry bots laid down scattered fire for the Bastion unit while it reloaded, bullets clinking together as a new belt shifted into place. The turret fired again, chipping away at the concrete. Reyes shrunk down behind the cover as far as he could, gritting his teeth, unable to take even a single shot. McCree felt his chest tighten as he raised his own gun, swallowing his fear and raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire.  


“What’s say we make a little wager?” He tried to ignore the slight hitch in his voice.  


“What?” Reyes shouted back with an incredulous look.  


He took a moment to clear his throat, putting on a face of complete confidence. “I said let’s make a bet.” A brief pause as the Bastion unit reloaded. “I’ll bet you I can take ‘em all out before you can say ‘uncle’.”  


“Bet? There’s no time for your fucking games, McCree.” He flinched as a hail of bullets rips through the concrete on his left side, almost clipping his shoulder.  


“Come on, Gabe, just a harmless little bet.” The cocksure gunslinger looked almost casual as he reloaded Peacekeeper, though he could barely hear himself over the erratic thudding of his own heartbeat. “If I can take all three of ‘em out, I get to pick where we eat tonight!”  


He saw a twitch of the commander’s eyebrow, but his grin didn’t falter.  


“I’m not letting you take us back to that shit-hole diner again.”  


“Just lay down some cover fire for me and I’ll get the job done, boss.”  


Jesse and Gabriel waited patiently through another belt of bullets, listening intently. Then, the tell-tale click of the omnic releasing the cached belt. Reyes rose to his feet, drawing both of his deadly shotguns on the bots. He couldn’t do any real damage from this distance, but the deadeye shooter sure as hell could. Just like you were taught, he reminded himself. Adjusting his hat, McCree followed Reyes’ lead, stepping out from the cover of the building - from the promise of safety.


	2. A Call to Arms

McCree instinctively threw a metal hand out, catching a glint of sunlight beaming through the uncovered window. He blinked against the glare, the clink of bullet casings and boots on concrete fading as he woke. _Just a dream,_ he thought bitterly, though the smell of gunpowder that had filled the air still lingered on his tongue like a bad aftertaste. The bed creaked beneath as he shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbows to survey his dingy room for the first time in the daylight. It was fairly clean, save for the motes of dust dancing in the early morning rays, and his worn duffel sat in the same spot it was tossed the night before. Two faded silver lockers stood against the wall opposite the rickety bunk. It certainly wasn’t the best sleep of his life, but it beat the hell out of another hardwood floor or train compartment with only his serape as a cushion.

He was thankful that Lena hadn’t lingered when she’d shown him to his room. As much as he wanted to catch up - to ask about the patchwork window in Winston’s lab and the extra security in place - his week of travel from the American midwest to Watchpoint: Gibraltar had taken a lot out of him. And as much as Lena wanted to hear the story of his brush with Talon aboard an intercontinental hypertrain, she’d relented with her line of questioning and bid him a good night’s rest.

As he reached for his half-smoked cigar on the bedside table, he noted with some exasperation that he’d forgotten to remove his metal prosthetic before falling asleep. That would be sure to chaffe by the day’s end. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, resolving to make it up to his poor appendage with a long shower later.

Smoke drifted lazily from his parted lips as he eyed the sleek window in the center of the room; it looked more for show than anything. A thin strip of metal bordered the edge, with no obvious latches or panels to actually open the contraption. Still, he padded over to take a closer look, biting down on his cigar and feeling around the smooth surface. In the sunlight, he was suddenly much more aware of the tan shirt clinging to his skin and the locks of dark hair trailing down his neck, slick with sweat. He regarded the room for a long moment, searching for something to break the glass before he suffered a heat stroke, but was quickly interrupted by a soft, single-note chime overhead.

“Agent McCree.” Said a voice above, an artificial contralto.

“Uh,” Jesse began, wiping the beading sweat from his brow. He squinted in confusion at a circular speaker barely visible in the white ceiling. “That’s me... you don’t sound like Winston.”

“My name is Athena. Forgive the intrusion, but I have detected an abnormal level of stress from your vitals; is there anything I can do to assist, Agent McCree?”

Jesse pondered this for a moment, tapping the end of his cigar and watching the ashes fall to the cold, tiled floor below. His vitals, huh? He felt his lip curl with a hint of annoyance. Tendrils of smoke trailed upwards towards the intercom as he spoke. “Don’t you worry about me, Miss Athena. Just in need of a little fresh air.”

“Please, allow me to get that for you.” The AI responded, and the window behind the gunslinger eased open with a soft _click_. “Is there anything else I can assist you with today, Agent McCree?”

“Well, thank ya kindly,” McCree took another long drag of his cigar, enjoying the breeze that followed. The little qualifier “Agent” rubbed him the wrong way; it made him long for a time when he had earned that title. “Don’t suppose you’ll be providing a continental breakfast as well?”

Athena took a moment to respond, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice when she did so. “I believe accommodations for your morning meal have already been made. Please, let me know if there is anything else you require.”

Another soft chime indicated her departure. Alone once more, McCree took a seat on the edge of the bed to finish smoking what was left of his cigar, toying with the small communicator on his wrist. No doubt this was the device being used to monitor his vitals. Idly, he wondered what readings he’d given off during his fitful sleep - Athena was sure to be monitoring him closely after that. He contemplated this over the ash pile accumulating at his feet for another moment before a rapid knock at his door spurred him from the train of thought.

Can’t a man get some privacy in his own barracks?

“Comin’, I’m comin’.” He grumbled, voice still heavy with sleep and cigar smoke. Clearing his throat, the cowboy trudged towards the door and tapped his fingers on the screen, keying in the code scrawled in his chicken-scratch writing above the panel. The metal door slid open with an exhale of air, revealing the perpetrator responsible for interrupting him.

“Goodmornin’!” Lena chirped, standing in the brightly lit hallway with a hand on her hip. She was dressed in a simple, loose white tank and a pair of dark leggings, holding a steaming mug in her off-hand and looking as though she’d been awake for hours. The warm glow of the sun on his back told him it couldn’t be later than eight-thirty. “You’re lookin’ rather lovely today.” She teased, grinning brightly.

“You got a reason for botherin’ me so early?”

“Well, I _was_ going to offer you breakfast.” She chided, waving some of the escaping smoke away from her face with a delicate hand.

“Breakfast? From where?” Jesse asked, a little too quickly.

“A little place called Cafe Rojo, just a few minutes from here. I got a good morning run in and some _ah-mazing_ authentic British food!”

McCree shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. “Even in the Iberian Peninsula, you can sniff out dry scones and beans on toast from a mile away.”

“Fine, if you don’t want any I’ll let Reinhardt eat your portion!” In a flash, she had disappeared from sight. McCree leaned out into the hallway to catch a glimpse of her smug grin as she gingerly sipped her coffee from a few meters away. “I’m serious about the Reinhardt thing. He’ll be here any minute, so you’d better hurry!”

Jesse gave a half grin of his own. It was dizzying how quickly they fell back into their old habits, with those cheeky remarks once exchanged in between missions. He waved a dismissive hand at the wiry British woman, but his small smirk remained as he retreated back into the confines of his cramped living quarters. He recalled a time when they had to cram four recruits to a room at the height of Overwatch’s glory days. During the most brutal time during the Omnic Crisis. A frown crossed his lips as he flicked the butt of his cigar out of the window.

Lifting his shirt collar to his face, he sniffed it briefly and made a mental note to find a time to do laundry. The gunslinger donned his red serape, noting the worn appearance around the edge, and headed out the door. Waiting outside was a flat, triangular robot was at his feet, rotating in place as though impatient. He stepped over it with ease, watching from the hall as the drone scooted across the room to begin diligently vacuuming his discarded ashes from the floor. At the same time, a whirring fan on the far wall blew the remaining smoke out of the open window. _Like a fancy hotel_ , he mused, before trotting off in search of food.

The winding hallways around the facility looked much alike, neutral walls with splashes of their signature orange, but there were signs here and there that pointed McCree in the right direction. He hadn’t had much time to take a tour after arriving in the middle of the night, exhausted and bleary-eyed from his night of travel.

He’d been holed up in some shanty house in the midwest when the communicator had chimed to life in his pack, after lying unused for so many years. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he tore through his belongings and stared in silent contemplation at the words displayed on the screen: INCOMING CALL. With some hesitation, and after finding the darkest corner in the building, he’d pressed the button to answer, half expecting to see Reyes’ familiar grimace appear to bark orders at him. The fuzzy face on the other end, however, was a pleasant surprise. McCree had tried to act nonchalant, ignoring Winston’s own surprised expression as he drawled, “Well, long time no see, my friend.” But the call had become chaotic when Lena chimed in with her own excited trill, a delighted but piercing, “Jesse!?”

He had wasted no time after the Recall, hitchhiking a few miles to the nearest airport and catching the first flight out of New Mexico to Madrid. Two trains and one very pissed off motorist later, he had arrived outside the sprawling facility only accessible by a path that had since been fenced off by the United States government. He hadn’t given them an ETA and didn’t know how soon they would be expecting him. Or if they were expecting anymore else. So, he stood outside the large, metal entrance for a few silent minutes, wondering whether he should knock. And just as he’d decided to try using his old access code on the door, it slid open, and in the blink of an eye the wiry British woman had her arms thrown around his neck, almost causing him to go tumbling. Winston had edged out after her, reserved but smiling warmly, urging them both inside and out of the blistering heat.

Truth be told, Jesse didn’t think he deserved the warm welcome after he up and left Overwatch during the fallout. During the collapse of headquarters, which he had been so lucky to witness on the evening news from a hospital bed offsite, the agents scrambled - some rushing to search for survivors of the destruction, others distancing themselves from the organization altogether. In the aftermath, McCree had been forgotten. It was of no-one’s fault but his own he was injured within an inch of his life, he knew that. He sat bound to the vitals monitor for a couple of days, waiting to see Angela’s familiar face among the hospital staff or hear Genji’s filtered voice coming to greet him, to share in his sorrow as their comrades fell around them. He had waited, but the pictures of Gabriel Reyes plastered all over the news was unbearable. It didn't take long for him to gather his few belongings and leave without a word. The man who had given him another shot at life - he was gone.

He tried to squash the thought in its tracks, bristling at the memory. But it was no use. That feeling that had loomed over him in the years following Overwatch’s disbandment had clung on tight, casting a shadow over the gunslinger.

The smell of bacon shook him from the moment of introspection, carrying him towards the dining hall where the pale hallways opened into a larger room with several rectangular, steel tables. It looked cleaner here, more lived in, though a majority of the metal chairs were still collecting dust, stacked neatly against the far wall. At one of the tables, Lena was flitting about, placing cardboard takeout boxes on its surface.

“Sleep well?” Asked Winston as he emerged from the entrance to the kitchen, sporting a grey tee with the Overwatch logo emblazoned on the chest.

He pursed his lips a little at that, glancing at the communicator screen on his wrist. The primate set out silverware while McCree formulated a response. “‘Bout as good as one can expect on those flimsy mattresses. Might just crash on the floor tonight before I throw out my back.”

“You became an old man in the past few years, Jesse.” Lena remarked. “Just double up on mattresses and you’ll sleep hard as a rock!”

“Thanks for the tip, ma’am.” McCree winked, and the woman’s cheeks were momentarily dusted with crimson as she waved a dismissive hand. Not _too_ terribly old, now was he? He spoke to Winston next, trying his best to sound casual. “Athena was a welcome help this mornin’, too. Feel like I’m livin’ in a five star hotel with her around.”

“Yes, she’s been a valuable ally in recent years. I’ll be sure to pass along your praise.”

“‘Preciate it." The gunslinger worried at his bottom lip briefly, trying to choose his words carefully. "Speaking of, I think she mentioned something about my vitals as well. Is that just for me?”

Winston narrowed his eyes at the note of accusation in his voice. Lena’s gaze flickered between the two. “No, of course not. Athena is keeping an eye on all four of us.”

He remembered Mei then, who had only made a brief appearance to greet the gunslinger the night before. Jesse couldn’t really blame her - if Blackwatch had been a step removed from the charismatic faces of the organization like Tracer, they were even further from the researchers like herself. He could only count a handful of occasions he’d met the climatologist, mostly at Overwatch events where he tended to hang back and out of sight of the cameras floating around. So, he didn’t press her for details when she’d emerged from Winston’s lab with puffy eyes, smiling at the man despite the tired, distant look on her face.

“I apologize if that seems inconvenient - I assure you it's a necessary precaution.” Winston stated after some time, McCree having gone silent in thought. “We can discuss this more when the others arrive. I’m sure there will be plenty of catching up to do on all sides.”

Jesse nodded in agreement, figuring they could leave it for another time. Before he could steer the conversation into less turbulent waters, the AI announced herself with a familiar chime. ‘Least she was polite, he supposed.

“Agents, I have detected three heat signatures outside the complex’s northern entrance.” Her voice hummed from an intercom somewhere above them.

“Company’s here!” Lena trilled.

McCree’s shoulders tensed involuntarily as she flitted from the tableside and out of sight, a feeling of unease settling in as he thought back to his hospital bed. To that bitter numbness in his mouth as he sat, uselessly, while everything fell apart around them.

Not willing to let the thought creep further, he strode towards the balcony door at the opposite end of the mess hall, flinging the doors open and producing another cigar. The smoke stabilized him, allowed him to fixate on the taste instead. And so he puffed thoughtfully as he looked out over the edge of the massive clifface, waves crashing against the rocks below.

He heard the approaching footsteps in the hallway what felt like an eternity later. Lena was the first to enter, walking at a leisurely pace that he couldn’t imagine was at all comfortable for her. But she was smiling up at Reinhardt directly behind her, who was beaming even as he trudged in carrying two large, silver cases in his hands, a green duffel slung over his back and a cream-colored suitcase underneath one arm. A young brunette woman trailed after - he was sure they’d never met, and yet she looked strangely familiar as she followed behind the towering German man, hefting her own red trunk into the hall. And then, Angela was there.

A warm smile graced her soft features, and he meant it when he said she hadn’t aged a _day._ The morning light bathed her in a golden glow. Jesse couldn’t help the familiar feeling that stirred - hell, was there even a word for it? There was never a moment he hadn’t felt safe enveloped in the yellow glow of her staff, even cowering from gunfire. Even lying in pieces on an operating table. He could remember the first time he’d met her on the battlefield, being the unlucky pup he was in his early days. She’d descended from an overheard ship, her winged form silhouetted against the midday sun. He was panting, half-crying when her voice called to him, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you”.

McCree couldn’t help his own smile as he stood in the doorway, cigar long forgotten in his fingers. “Well, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Angela’s smile faltered as she turned, and he felt his heart drop for a moment. But then there was a shocked “Jesse!” and a boisterous “McCree, is that you!?” from the European pair. To his surprise, she crossed the room in quick strides to envelop him in a tight hug - a hug that he returned after a brief hesitation, his flesh hand holding the reeking cigar away from them.

“ _Mein gott_ , I never thought I’d see that ridiculous scarf again.” She sighed, resting her cheek squarely against his chest. He probably should have opted for some cologne this morning at the very least, he thought, but if she minded, she didn’t show it. After a moment, she pulled back to look at him. “How have you been? No, better yet, _where_ have you been? How is your arm?”

“No worries Doctor Ziegler, I’ve been takin’ care of it just like you showed me.” His reply did little to deter the woman from turning the prosthetic over in her hands. When she pulled his serape aside, he winced as she noted the reddened skin around the metal socket underneath. “Well, ‘cept for last night. Must’ve fallen asleep with the darned thing still attached.”

“Mhm. Well it does look decently maintained - though I’ll want to see you for a checkup, just as soon as I have my equipment prepared.” She said with a creased brow. Still, there was a gentleness in her tone as she spoke. “I see you haven’t kicked that habit yet, either.”

McCree grinned sheepishly as he tucked the partially smoked cigar away, but was spared the ensuing lecture by two muscled arms pulling him into a hug so tight it had him on his tiptoes. Reinhardt, apparently having waited long enough to say his hello’s, laughed voraciously as he clapped a firm hand on the gunslinger’s back.

“McCree, my friend! It is good to see you!”

“Likewise, big guy.” Came his half-smothered reply.

When the silver-haired man finally released his iron grasp, teasing his lack of the signature cowboy hat, he gestured to the brunette who was watching the scene unfold from the back of the room. “Ah, you remember Briggitte, yes?”

“Brigitte Lindholm. It’s nice to finally meet another Overwatch veteran besides the ones I’m related to.”

“Ah...you wouldn’t happen to be-”

“Torbjorn’s daughter? That’s me.” She smiled, rolling her shoulders - McCree noted the rusted red tattoo adorning her skin that marked her as a member of the Ironclad Guild.

“Well, no surprise you’ve already outgrown your old man. What are you doin’ following this one around?”

“Ha, I ask the same question! She’s an extraordinary ally to have, but one far more deserved by another.”

Brigitte rolled her eyes, still with that soft expression. “Speak for yourself - someone’s got to keep your armor in check. Otherwise it would go to waste.”

McCree met Mercy’s gaze as the two bickered, and he could tell by the quirk of her brow they had been thinking the same thing. They had longed for this familiarity, the sense of camaraderie that had been stripped from them with the fall of Overwatch. And it was bittersweet to be reminded of the agents that had fallen with it.

“Alright, enough of your banter!” Lena announced from her chair. “Come and get some grub while it’s still warm!”

They obliged at the promise of food, McCree extending an arm with a characteristic, “ma’am” as he trailed behind Angela to the table. Lena carefully inspected each box as she handed them out, apparently having put a lot of thought into each meal.  He opened his to find a particularly tantalizing sandwich inside, the freshly sliced bread dripping with bacon grease. Suddenly aware that he’d gone nearly fourteen hours without a meal, he dug in, sighing contentedly as he chewed.

“Bacon and brie,” Said Lena cheekily. “they were out of scones, sorry.”

The six of them sat around the table for nearly two hours, Mercy daintily taking bites of her ciabatta toast while Reinhardt finished his leg of lamb before even considering the sauteed veggies and eggs on the side. Winston recounted the attack on Gibraltar shortly before the Recall, distributing communicators to the new members - if they could even call themselves that, being a defunct organization and all.

"Are we the first to answer the call?" Reinhardt asked between bites.

"Yes, I'm afraid." Replied Winston. "Several of the comms were unreachable, but I contacted just about everyone I could think of."

"More will come, right? We can't be the only ones who see the need for Overwatch again." Brigitte chimed in.

"I would hope so. But I'll be sure to alert you all if I hear anything else."

"Speakin' of getting the old crew back together, I heard you and Lena were busy wreckin' a museum this weekend." McCree grinned at the monkey.

Headlines had been rattled by the reappearance of old Overwatch members in the public, and Jesse was lucky enough to catch word on his train ride over. The media certainly didn't portray the pair kindly, but there was no footage of the incident to speak of. Only the cryptic speech from a brunette newscaster that had described the incident as an act of attempted robbery - though they couldn't say what exactly they were after.

Lena had some thoughts about that portrayal in particular. "That story was complete rubbish. We were there to  _stop_ the theft, and they didn't even mention Talon's name."

"Talon?" Angela's voice was full of concern. "You had a run-in with Talon agents - at the museum?"

"Ah, well, its actually a long story-" Winston began.

"Oh come on Winston, it's a good one. Tell 'em all about it!"

McCree leaned back in his chair, to-go box empty in front of him. At Lena's insistence, the scientist reluctantly began. "Very well. Lena had just arrived when Athena alerted us to a possible heist - we were already on high alert for any sign of Reaper after he infiltrated the complex. The surveillance feed outside the museum indicated he and another were present, so we intercepted them."

"Uhm. Don't want to embellish just a bit?"

"That's what happened... what else should I-"

"We saved a couple of kids in there just minding their own business, for one! And we fended off not just Reaper, but that... Widowmaker, too."

Lena's face flickered briefly with a grim expression. Jesse's own eyes lowered at the mention of her name - the woman formerly known as Amélie Lacroix. The assassin responsible for the death of Tekartha Mondatta... and Ana Amari. He didn't have the details of Lena's encounter with the sniper at King's Row, but she had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the whole thing. Maybe out of guilt, he thought.

"What were they looking for?" Asked Angela.

"The Doomfist gauntlet. Or so we think." Winston replied, removing his spectacles to clean them on the edge of his shirt.

"They certainly weren't there for a tour of our glory days." Lena added bitterly.

McCree realized over the course of the meal that, despite the shutdown, his comrades had still been out there fighting the good fight. While he was getting piss drunk in an abandoned shack for the last few years. He felt that guilt rise in his throat like bile once more. That’s all he had ever been good for - running and gunning.

After their meal, Winston offered to show Mercy to the hospital wing while McCree got to work cleaning up. She fussed over the pale suitcase Reinhardt had carried in for her, making a big show of wheeling it out with ease, and the gunslinger watched her go with a fond smile. Tracer trailed behind to help in the cleanup process, while Reinhardt and Brigitte heaved the armor cases to their respective rooms.

Back in his room, he asked Athena for directions to the laundry room, lugging his duffel over one shoulder. The machine itself still looked sturdy enough, though it took a few minutes of mashing buttons to get it working. No doubt every clothing item he owned was in need of a good rinse. He watched the spherical cage containing his clothes gyrate for a couple of minutes, before heading towards the showers he’d seen at the end of his hall.

The prosthetic was easy to remove - just a simple release of the pins securing it and he sat it to the side of the shower stall as he stepped into the warm water. It cascaded over his form, notably tanned from his days spent in the sun and sticky with a layer of grime. His stump had swollen somewhat, though it felt marginally less terrible free from the metal cuff, and he took care to gingerly wash the area. He scrubbed himself down beneath the spray until it chilled some thirty minutes later, only realizing he’d neglected to locate a towel until he pulled the stall curtain back. He peeked out into the shower room to check that he was indeed alone. Then he gathered his belongings and sidled up to one of the sinks, his bare back facing the door as he trimmed the untamed scruff adorning his chin.

Jesse appraised his handiwork in the mirror, brushing his neck with measured strokes of his hand to check for any stray hairs and generally enjoying the feeling of being clean again. He wandered back to his room after collecting laundry, wearing only a pair of sweats while he folded and stacked the clothing in one of the lockers. It was nearing evening by the time he finished, the sun casting an orange glow across the complex outside his window. He had drifted off to sleep before he knew it, and he was thankful it was a dreamless one.

The communicator on his bedside table chimed sometime later, and he awoke to a darkened room. He sat up, disoriented, a message displaying on the blue-hued screen with a _plip_ .

[Agent_Tracer : 05:32:11]

_Cheers love, dinner is here! (:_

He chuckled to himself in the darkness, fingers hovering briefly over the translucent keyboard as he searched for the proper buttons to tap out a reply.

[Agent_McCree: 05:34:47]

_Don’t let Reinhardt eat my food._

Jesse pulled on a clean shirt before he exited the room, leaving his hat and serape behind. He tousled his hair as an afterthought, the hairs tickling his neck a reminder that it had grown out longer than he cared for. As he padded through the corridor, one of the doors slid open, and Mei emerged from room A-02, a cardboard box in one hand and an empty mug dangling from the other. The robot she’d affectionately named Snowball drifted out behind her, beeping curiously at McCree. He waved a metal hand in her direction, offering up a friendly smile.

“Oh, hello Jesse!” She said, though a look of guilt crossed her features. “I’m...sorry I wasn’t able to join you for breakfast this morning.”

“No worries, ma’am.” He suddenly realized he hadn’t seen the climatologist at all during the day, and he wondered when Lena had brought food by. “Hope you’ll be joinin’ us for supper, at least?”

“Of course.”

She seemed content to walk alongside him to the mess hall, chatting idly about the scorching heat outside the complex. He noted she was also wearing a pair of comfortable pants and her eyes were darkened underneath like she’d been up all night, though he wasn’t about to pry. They reached the mess hall to find their companions gathered around the table from this morning, and McCree sniffed the air as some delicious aroma drifted from the kitchen. Mei apologized once more to the group, though the words were quickly lost as Angela greeted the researcher with unrestrained delight.

Reinhardt graced the room with a large baking dish shortly after, a wonderful blend of vegetables and meat steaming in the center of the table.

“English breakfast, German dinner! We call this _Eintopf_!” He announced proudly, removing the lid to reveal a hearty broth stew with sprigs of greens sprinkled atop.

“Reinhardt, this looks dee-lish!” Tracer said gleefully, and a chorus of ‘thank you’s’ echoed her sentiment around the table. His chest puffed with pride as everyone dug in. “Mmm, I’ve never had meat this _flavorful_ ; what’s even in this?”

“I think it’s called ‘spice’.” McCree quipped.

“Oh come off it! You already admitted you liked my food, so you can’t go taking it back now!”

As the table filled with scattered laughter, Jesse let himself relax marginally. These were the moments he had longed for living the drifter life. Even in his Deadlock days, Jesse had always sought a family, somewhere to call home. And this wasn't like then, playing poker and scoring loot from some poor hapless souls that wandered into their territory. This felt different - foreign. _But not unwelcome_ , thought the gunslinger.

Athena chimed overheard then, speaking quickly. “Winst- Agents,” She corrected herself. “I have detected an abnormal heat signature outside the complex. I cannot determine the identity of the intruder.”

Several things happened at once, as a brief silence inflated around the mess hall and burst abruptly. Winston instructed Athena to pull up the footage from the security cameras outside, leading the agents down the hallway to his laboratory. Brigitte sprinted off in the direction of the barracks. Mercy and Mei gathered around the large screen displaying the security feed, and Tracer, too, had disappeared behind them. Jesse felt at his hip for the piece he knew wasn’t there, feeling exposed, contemplating the time it would take him to run back to his own room. Would he even have time if this was an attack?

“There!” Angela shouted, pointing a finger at a flash of green. The camera was too far to make out a face, but the figure couldn’t have been human with the way it easily scaled rocks along the cliff-side.  _An omnic?_

Tracer reappeared, goggles perched on her head and a firm grip around her dual pistols as she stared at the feed. He could hear Brigitte clattering down the hallway some distance behind. Winston adjusted his glasses as he peered closer, and Angela looked transfixed on the display.

“The intruder has reached the front bay door.” Athena announced.

The feed flickered to the front door camera just outside Winston’s lab, and a lone, white-clad figure stood eerily in front - as though it was waiting for something. McCree squinted at a glowing visor lighting up the figure in an ominous green.

“Open the door.” Came Winston’s reply.

The agents waited for a long moment as the door grinded with effort, opening out into the dark skyline. The figure was silent for a moment as the door came to a halt, before holding two fingers aloft in a 'V' shape and speaking in an artificial voice. “Yo!”

Instantly, the cavernous room was alight with relief as Genji stood before them. Tracer dropped her firearms to her sides, cheerily calling out to the cyborg and rushing to greet him alongside Angela. Brigitte rushed into the room a moment later, wielding a flail and Reinhardt’s behemoth of a hammer and looking lost at the shift in tone. McCree waited patiently for the ninja to receive his share of pleasantries.

“Well, I’ll be - Mr. Shimada lives after all.” He mused, loudly enough for Genji to hear.

They moved back into the mess hall after it was clear the remainder of the night would be spent playing twenty questions with Genji, but the man was all too happy to join in the banter at the dinner table. McCree had gotten very good at reading his vocal cues after years of being unable to read his facial expressions, and his filtered voice sounded light and cheery as he detailed his life after Overwatch. A far cry from the usual brooding man he was so used to.

“I apologize for not responding to your message sooner, Winston. I wanted to accept your invitation in person.” He explained, dipping his head in a slight bow. “I also came to ask permission to extend that invitation to my master, Zenyatta.”

“He’s the one you’ve been studying under in Nepal, is that right?”

“Yes. He is a very dear friend, and I think his cause aligns well with ours.”

“Of course you know any friend of yours is a friend of ours, Genji.” The gorilla replied, though he had a look of apprehension. “But...Overwatch activities are still prohibited by law. I can’t guarantee that he won’t be implicated if the government catches wind. Even our meeting here is considered illegal.”

“I understand. I think he would still be willing to accept, as we all did, despite the risk.”

Winston considered this for a moment, before nodding in affirmation. “If he has any questions at all, feel free to direct him to me. When should we expect him by?”

“I will set out for Nepal tonight.”

“Nonsense!” Angela finally spoke up, looking appalled at even the suggestion. “You will stay here for the night at the very least, so that I can perform a thorough checkup. It’s a long way to Nepal.”

The cyborg nodded, and McCree wondered what the expression behind his visor would look like in that moment. Their meal was finished soon afterwards, Angela chiding Genji for surprising them like that. Outside, the night sky was overcast, blocking out any moonlight from reaching the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far! This is a multi-chapter fic idea I've had for some time, but I'm new to publishing my works online so please let me know if you notice any errors. I hope to have the second chapter up in a couple of weeks, and rest assured that this fic will be a slooow burn. Thank you again! :)


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